Colorblind
by Sandra E
Summary: But he brings her crashing down every time.


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Title: Colorblind 

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Author: Sandra 

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Category: Rogue/Scott. 

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Rating: PG-13 

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Summary: _The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose_. Hada Bejar

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Feedback: Well, duh.

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Prologue: **_Blank_**

He makes them read.

He throws around profound, immortalized titles that never catch their attention, titles some students probably can't even spell out, by authors they know only because of low budget movies.

He reads to them in class, and it's never simply entertaining, it's passionate and barely controlled and only _she_ notices his voice lowers a few octaves when he reads long Hemingway excerpts.

Only she _wants_ to.

And she watches him—listens to the way every long, significant word is pronounced, subconsciously memorizing which words get special attention, and she experiences pleasure and desire and grief and rage and always feels defeated when he finishes.

His words—the way he reads, the way they roll off his tongue—make her feel lost. They're ruthless, his words, they are. They take away any sign of redemption and mercy and hope in the blink of an eye, and always bring anger, so much anger.

But he keeps reading to them, to just _her_ perhaps.

He speaks calmly, telling her of great romances, sweeping her off her feet for long, remarkably eternal moments, watching as she fights to remain there, sheltered comfortably in cloaks of ecstatic illusions.

But he brings her crashing down every time.

He reminds her—reminds her all great love affairs end in tragedy, in disillusionment, in both death and development, and she wonders if maybe he speaks from experience. If all those famous romances are partly his own, natural and intrinsic and hidden beneath layers of denial.

If the desperation and the fake idealism are real, real and _his_, plaguing his life because he doesn't want to resist them if they bring much deserved punishment.

But before she can seriously dwell on it, he's once again reading to her, his breathing easily compared to a slow, fiery rhythm, exuding sexuality and passion far beyond the cold reservation and composure epitomized by his ruby red lenses.

And he hides everything so well, but his words, his words are almost like a soothing, arousing touch, and at moments, she thinks that he can see her, _really_ see her. And then she wants to touch him, _really_ touch him, like his words touch her.

But she knows she can't.

Because their lives revolve around liking what they find.

Not around finding what they like.

  
  
**Chapter** **One**: **_Red_**

The very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common. _Instead of altering their views to fit the facts, they alter the facts to fit their views_... _which can be very uncomfortable if you happen to be one of the facts that needs altering_.

—Doctor Who, _Face_ _of_ _Evil_

It went beyond color. 

It held more meaning than a palette of dyes used to paint mortality and timelessness. It was nature's way of balancing everything out, making life more meaningful, no matter how painful the loss.

It was a reminder of frailty, and a hindrance to power.

It was blood.

And it was suffocating her, soaking through her clothes, baptizing her in sin and destruction, spreading quickly, dangerously, until it took form. And it always chose to take the same form, always predictable, always incredibly frightening, always smelling like fear and panic and betrayal.

It was always Logan's.

Rogue curled on her side, her fingers clutching the blanket until the images passed and guilt washed over her.

She sat up, and let her feet slip to the cold floor, rubbing the side of her neck.

It hurt so much.

It hurt when she woke up halfway through a bone-chilling nightmare and couldn't tell him how sorry she was he had to go away, how grateful she was he'd saved her, how sometimes she wished it had been her who hurt for days.

How sometimes she watched the sunrise, never the sunset, because there was less red, less pain during a sunrise.

Because stars and darkness followed a sunset, but _sunrise_ gave light, meant life went on, and that was what he'd taught her, whether he liked it or not.

But she wasn't going to think about life or Logan right now.

There was that English paper that was due in a few days.

So she quietly walked over to the table, careful not to wake her roommate, and sat down, brushing her fingers over the shiny laptop. She wrote fast and furiously, losing herself the moment her long, thin fingers brushed across the slick keys.

She wrote about a room full of strangers, about a girl that dreamt only in shades of red, always red, poured her heart out through tangled, long metaphors. She wrote until she felt the prickle of tears behind her eyelids, until soft light trickled through the curtains, signaling the break of dawn.

And then she walked over to the window and sat, curled up on the windowsill, her profile outlined by the flickering rays of a still-distant sun, writing as the chilly breeze played with her hair.

Occasionally, her gaze would submit to the swelling colors around her, surrendering her attention to the abundant rosebush underneath her windowpane. She would watch the red roses blossom, glistening with small, glassy droplets of morning dew, and she promised herself she would ask the Professor if she could plant some white roses soon. 

He stayed late.

Long after the last class of the day left, long after the students scattered around the mansion, he _stayed_, seated at his neat, systematically arranged, desk, chewing on his favorite number two pencil.

And he read.

He read slowly—read about a game of tetherball, careful and anxious and memorizing the girl who dreamt in shades of red and played in a room full of strangers. He read, nervous and confused, about a girl who was wondering.

Wondering about the ball and the leash. Wondering why the ball _needed_ to be on a leash, wondering why no one saw that if the ball was attached to a rope, it would eventually tangle itself around the pole, and be _stuck_ and stranded and alone with nowhere to go.

And Scott reread the story over and over again, not daring to sympathize, unable to comment as he usually would, unable to allow himself to feel anything beyond a teacher's vanity, or a leader's concern.

He looked away, and watched the sunset in all its darkness and when he turned around again, he caught himself scribbling an _A_ in thick, red ink.

He avoided searching for her face in the crowd.

Until the second story ended up on his desk.

The girl was still playing tetherball in a room full of strangers, but she didn't wonder so much anymore.

She asked whether it made sense for the girl to finally realize—to realize the ball _needed_ the rope. She wrote about knowing that, without the rope, the ball would fall to the ground. Said she wanted to know how far she would fall, how loud the crash would be, and if anyone would ever care if the ball fell. If it could be picked up again.

And Scott reread that story, too, kept reading it until the sun set for the day, and marked it with an _A_ in bold, black ink, because he didn't have a red pen handy.

Suddenly he didn't read Hemingway to them anymore.

He substituted _To_ _Have_ _and_ _Have_ _Not_ with _A_ _Midsummer_ _Night's_ _Dream_, carefully skidding around any other Shakespearean plays. He read comedies, and cheesy romance novels posing as good literature, and she noticed the happy endings.

Noticed there were no events greater than life, no deprivation of fulfillment, and ignored that something was missing, something _important_.

And then he wanted them to write about the strength and the devotion and the passion these new protagonists displayed, and made it worth twenty-five percent of their grade, and she'd noticed the way he'd looked at her when he'd been describing the assignment for full ten minutes.

So, later, Rogue sat at her window, vaguely aware of her reflection in the glass opposite her, and tried to find examples of strength and devotion and passion.

Desperately, she searched through her textbooks and paper copies that were neatly stapled together, and grunted in a very Logan-like manner when she found no depth, no intensity, no significance, no _life_.

And she almost tossed the papers out the window together with her cold, shiny laptop that felt so much like Logan, but the rosebush caught her attention. And she stared at the withering roses as they faded, their dark red petals drying out, shriveling and looking so much like dried blood on leather she felt like all strength had left her forever.

So she threw the laptop onto her blanket, and rushed out of the room, with her hand over her mouth and her eyes watery and found her way into Mr. Summers' office.

"They're all _weak_," she said as she burst through his door, her brown eyes pleading with him.

"That was the point, Rogue." He remained seated, and watched her, his fingers twined.

"But..."

"Do you want to be strong, Rogue?"

"I...yes."

"Then you have to endure pain, Rogue."

And she understood as he repeated her name like he knew something she didn't.

They gave her a bracelet.

They gave her a bracelet—a shiny little thing—and kept her in the lab for hours, explaining how it worked. Long, meticulous explanations about magnetism and chemical control and they kept using more scientific terms until she _believed_ them and smiled brightly and ran out into the world.

And then she could touch.

She could laugh and go out and not write anymore.

She could play with people—people that weren't strangers anymore, could wear clothes that were appropriate for the weather, could skip his class to go to the lake with Kitty and Jubilee.

She told him once she never dreamt in shades of red anymore, told him she _loved_ the leash because it had made her ordinary and appreciated and not alone.

And she didn't need his words anymore, didn't need him to read to her, _for_ her.

But he expected her to write.

He _needed_ her to write.

He needed to see in color again, in all the thousands of shades that he knew existed and could only find in her words, in her need for him.

And then he saw her with Bobby, and he saw her kissing him under a tree and heard her giggle, so he told her the truth and made himself believe she was ready for it.

"The bracelet, Rogue...it's just silver jewelry. It's _you_, you're controlling your power all by yourself."

And she rushed off, pale as the first snow, and he didn't see her for days, until Monday rolled around and she showed up in class. Until she sat down at her desk, calm and collected and listening to him talk about language patterns, and when she left, there was a story on his table.

And he thought he knew what he was going to read, and he almost felt at peace, elated and content and then he read.

He read about a girl who was living in a mansion full of red, dying roses. He read a story about a girl who could never say never, because she knew betrayal. A girl who couldn't trust anyone, not even herself because she was too susceptible to illusions. Who didn't want to be strong. 

He read a story about a girl who was missing her protector, her reliable shield against the darkness, against the cold, against life.

And he knew he was needed again, and he felt a twinge of guilt, but the need to protect and to _see_ was stronger, so he buried everything else deep inside and promised himself _he_ would be her protector, her safeguard and that no one would make him colorblind again.

And then Logan reemerged.


End file.
